by Jillian Hart
Minnie flicked her tail and hopped onto the arm of the couch. Daintily picking up her tiny, soft downy paws, she settled on the back of the cushion and made an adorable fluffy ball. The feline eyed Doris Day swimming around in a mermaid’s costume with clear disapproval.
Next trip home, Kristin decided, she was definitely taking the cats with her.
Thoughts of Montana naturally led to memories of Thanksgiving and of Ryan Sanders—of how he’d changed into a man to admire.
It was a no-brainer that Mom had turned his visit on Thanksgiving into a major deal. Every time Mom called since, she’d mentioned something she’d heard about him, through Mary. How busy he was, that he’d just bought a new car, how he’d taken a weekend and gone skiing in New Mexico with some of his doctor buddies. “What he really needs,” Mom had confided, “is a wife. Mary worries about him.”
If there was anyone who could take care of himself, it was Dr. Ryan Sanders. As she unlocked the door and stepped out onto the covered front step to grab her mail from the little white box, she wondered if she’d ever met anyone more competent. She’d never forget how he’d handled the emergency that night—his hands so steady, his actions so controlled, his calm wisdom.
Why did she sigh when she thought of him? It wasn’t as if she was interested in him.
She slammed the door shut against the damp night and stood over the heat register, shivering. A letter from Gramma. She’d save that to read while she ate. A reminder from the state vehicle people that her license tabs needed to be renewed. Oh, and a letter from…she squinted at the strange names of the return address etched in gold. A law office? No, a doctor’s office. In Arizona.
Ryan! She ripped the envelope open and she didn’t care if she was way too eager. They were, well, sort of friends. It was always good to hear from a friend, right?
Dear Kristin.
It was hard to read his block letters, his handwriting was more of a scribble. So she sat down on the corner of the couch and switched on the table lamp.
Our patient has made a full recovery and is back at school. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for everything that night. You were really something. Thanks. I still owe you for driving through daybreak so I could sleep. Since Mom has twisted my arm and made me promise to come home for Christmas, I’ve actually got more than the one day off. I get the entire weekend, too, so what do you say I treat you to milkshakes at The Sunshine Café? You name the time and the date, and I’ll be there.
Milkshakes? She laughed, amazed that he’d remembered they’d discussed chocolate milkshakes as they’d driven through town Thanksgiving morning.
P.S. Samantha sent this to me.
Inside the envelope was a sealed note card—a note from Samantha Fields.
Dear Kristin, I can’t believe how blessed I am to have been rescued by you and Ryan. I just wanted to thank you for helping me. God bless you.
It was signed, Sam.
Wow. Of course, Ryan was the one who’d made the real difference, being the doctor. He’d known just what to do to help minimize Sam’s injuries. Yeah, he was definitely one fine man.
She noticed he’d scribbled his e-mail address on the bottom of his letter. Now the question was, how long would it take her to get up enough courage to write him?
December 22
A cold Seattle rain streamed down Kristin’s bedroom window. Wind gusted against the eaves and rattled the barren alder branches outside. They moaned in protest, adding to the desolate feeling of the night.
But inside the house, she was warm and cozy. Snug in her favorite yellow flannel pajamas and thick slipper socks, she cuddled beneath her electric blanket and relaxed against the feather pillows piled up behind her. The laptop rested on the covers, the cursor patiently blinking.
It was now or never. She’d procrastinated long enough.
Okay, what should she say?
Her pair of Persians kept a wary eye on her, especially Minnie who did not approve of computers. The feline, curled on the foot of the bed, watched the glowing contraption with great displeasure. In her opinion, computers obviously did not belong on the bed.
Dear Ryan. Two o’clock. Saturday afternoon. I’m looking forward to it.
The phone startled her. Since she hadn’t gotten online yet, she grabbed the cordless handset and glanced at the caller ID screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi. I know it’s late, sweetie, but I wanted to check in with you. You’ve been on my mind today. I’ve got all my shopping done except for you.”
“I told you. Something for my house. Oh! Better yet, my kitchen.”
“I can’t think you’d like a mixer for Christmas. Lord knows when Pete bought me one for my birthday two years ago, I didn’t take too kindly to it. It was sure a nice mixer, but Christmas is for something special.”
“I know, but there’s a lot of stuff I’d love to have.”
“Well, I’ll have to think about it. It doesn’t seem right. Unless…” Excitement flickered across the miles. “You know a woman considering her future might want a well-stocked kitchen.”
Oh, here it comes. Trust Mom to see buying a small appliance as a prelude to a trip down the aisle. “I agree, Mom. I should consider a future with a lot of small appliances in my kitchen. Since I’m a single career woman, I’m sure I’ll enjoy healthier meals with my own, say, bread maker or one of those rotisserie roasters.”
“Well, you just never know when you might be cooking for two.”
“Exactly. Two weeks ago I went out to lunch with Cousin Rachel. It sure would have been nice to invite her over for a home-cooked meal.”
“Oh, you! You know what I mean. I can’t believe you want to be alone. Goodness. I’ll rest so much better when I know you have a husband to take care of you in that big city you insist on living in.”
“I like it here. I’m staying. Without a husband. Sorry.”
“I worry. It’s a dangerous world out there.”
“I’ve got a security system.”
“Well, I’ll feel better knowing my last daughter is settled.”
“I am settled, Mom. I have my own home, I have a great job, I’m happy. Why isn’t that enough for you?”
“Oh, it is. But think of all that you’re missing. A husband and children of your own. Kirby had a doctor’s appointment—you know how they’ve had trouble trying for a second child—and I kept Michael so Sam could go with her to Bozeman for those tests she needs.”
“I was just about to get online and check my messages. Kirby said she’d e-mail me if she felt up to it tonight and tell me what happened. How was Michael?”
“A handful! It took me back to when you girls were small. So much energy! It seemed as if I never could have a moment’s rest, and now look at me. You’re all grown and gone and I have all this time on my hands.”
Kristin ached for her mom. For the child she’d had to bury, for the depression that troubled her for years after. Mom’s life had crumbled into irrevocable pieces. It was sad, because Kristin had found a way to go on. She’d built a life that she could count on. Mom hadn’t been as lucky.
“What’s Dad up to now that he has so much time on his hands?”
“He’s planted himself right in front of that expensive television he insisted on buying and doesn’t move off the couch. Retirement is fine for him, but he’s underfoot all day long.”
Her parents had their problems. Kristin’s stomach squeezed. Marriage. She didn’t understand it. How her parents could have been so in love once—they’d been deeply bonded in the years when Kristin was small. But their marriage, as strong as it was, had suffered from their daughter’s death. Now they were like two strangers living in the same house.
If love was something that could break, she didn’t want any part of it, thank you very much!
“I had lunch with Mary again today. We had our own Christmas, just the two of us, a little early. We met at her house. I brought the eggnog and dessert, and she whipped up the best meal. Cornish game he
ns that were perfection. Anyway, she happened to mention that Ryan is coming home tomorrow. Isn’t that something? He’s finally got enough seniority in that doctor’s office to get Friday and Saturday off. He’ll be here, in Montana.”
“I knew you were going to mention that. I already know, Mom.”
“You do? You’ve spoken to him?”
“You sound as proud as if I’d won the Nobel Peace Prize. Mom!” Was her mother predictable or what? “He’s not my type, and I’m not his. So stop. If you don’t, I’m going to call each of my sisters and tell them that you’re pressuring me. When you promised to stop.”
“I just can’t help myself. He’s a doctor.”
“Yeah. That’s been established. Good night, Mom.”
“Before you go, what time should I be looking for you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be home sometime in the evening. Snow’s forecasted through the mountain passes, so it’ll be slow going. Don’t wait supper on me.”
“All right. You drive safe. I can’t wait to see you. I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.”
She hung up, aching. She loved her mother so much, but that only made Mom’s comments about marriage hurt more. Mom’s heart was in the right place, but she didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Her life was different. They were different women, different choices. That’s what it came down to.
Wind moaned beneath the eaves, spattering rain against the windowpanes. The furnace kicked on, blowing at the closed curtains, ruffling them gently.
It was a lovely room. The big picture window, during the day, looked out over the grass lawn and through the treetops for a seasonal view of Green Lake. Gramma’s old bedroom set, refinished in a honeyed oak, gleamed as if it were new. The reading chair tucked in the corner by the window, the oak bookcases stuffed with inspirational romances—this was home. Her home. Safe and snug and welcoming. Everything she’d ever wanted.
She’d never set her sights high on being rich or successful or renowned. She’d never wanted to base her future on unstable ground or on someone she could lose. But this place was nice and sensible at once, and it was her center. Her sanctuary. Her life. She was happy here. Content. Blessed.
The screen saver had clicked on and she tapped the keyboard to bring the e-mail program to the front. The letter sat, just as she’d left it.
She reread the e-mail, pondering. The mattress dipped slightly as the second cat hopped onto the bed and padded across the quilt to inspect the screen. “What do you think, Mickey?”
The gray longhair sneered, lifted one paw and washed his face.
“You’re right—I shouldn’t meet him. It was a nice offer, to treat me to a milkshake. But with our matchmaking moms and all their hopes, it’s a bad idea.”
Ryan Sanders lived like two thousand miles away. Too far away to be friends. So what was the point? She didn’t want another e-mail pen pal. She couldn’t keep up with the messages she got from her sisters!
She hit Delete and clicked the command for the modem to start dialing. She read Kirby’s letter first—a report on the state of her sister’s fallopian tubes—and sent a sympathetic response. Then she moved on to Michelle’s note about their joint gift for Mom. She laughed reading her last note from Kendra—who was getting her sleigh ready for the Christmas-tree expedition Christmas Eve morning.
She signed off without contacting Ryan.
Their lives had crossed paths once, for a higher purpose, perhaps only to save Samantha Fields. Kristin believed God worked that way, all things for His purpose and His good. That meant there was no reason she would see Ryan Sanders again. She wasn’t about to manufacture one—not with the way her mom was frothing with excitement in hopes of a final marriage in the McKaslin family.
She tucked the computer onto the nightstand shelf, eased into her feather pillows, soft and comfy, and switched off the lamp by her bed. In the dark, she drew the snuggly electric blanket to her chin.
Sure, she was alone, but she liked the peace of it. Rain hammered with a new fury on the roof above. Wind thrashed against the siding, making the fir boughs dance, their shadows from the faint porch light hovered on the wall.
This was her life—safe, predictable, independent, unshakable. She remembered to thank God for it before her heavy eyelids drifted shut and sleep claimed her.
December 23
Three minutes past midnight. Ryan yanked loose the tie that had been trying to throttle him for six hours. Way too long for a party, in his opinion. Their office Christmas party had taken place in one of Scottsdale’s finest restaurants. The food had been amazing. The gifts generous. His heart hadn’t been in the festivities. As usual.
He respected the people he worked with. He liked them as people. Talk about lucky. Not everyone could say that about the folks they worked with. He could make small talk, but he was beginning to think his former fiancée had been right. He was horrible when it came to getting really close to people.
He didn’t want to get too close. That was the problem.
He tossed his tie on the bed. Francine had been right about a lot of things. He wasn’t controlling, but he did control how much—or how little—he let people in.
He buried his emotions. He didn’t express his feelings very well when he did allow them to surface. His career was demanding and left little time for any personal relationships. He pretty much kept to himself, other than the quick e-mail a few times a month, and superficial friendships with other busy doctors that were based mostly on talking about the job and sports.
Yeah, Francine was right on target.
The house echoed around him. Dark and shadowed. He rented it—it was easier than committing to a mortgage and taking on the added responsibility of being a homeowner. He’d worked hard to become a good surgeon. That took a great amount of devotion and responsibility.
Well, he wasn’t a shrink. He didn’t know a thing about psychology, not in the practical application. He only knew that for some reason the lonely shadows in his house felt as suffocating as the ones in his past. In his life.
He flicked on the hall light to chase away the darkness. That was enough introspection for one night. He was flying out tomorrow, that’s why all this was troubling him.
Maybe he’d volunteer to work through the holidays next year. He loved his mom, but he couldn’t take the memories. It had taken three weeks for him to stop waking up in the middle of the night in a sweat. The nightmares from his youth had returned. Dreams where he lost his mom, his sister, his home, everything that mattered. And his dad, over and over again.
He couldn’t take going home, but he had to. How many times had he picked up the phone to dial his mom and cancel the trip? To try to explain to her? But how could he bring up his grief? Talking about Dad’s death had always hurt her terribly. Over time she’d begun to mention him now and then in conversation, but to really talk, to go back in time—no, he couldn’t do that to her.
He was going home tomorrow, whether he liked it or not.
In the bedroom he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his shirt. A paperback book was facedown, spine open on the crate he used as a bedside table. He usually read before he went to bed, but he didn’t feel like it tonight.
What he needed to do was pack. He’d put it off, and since he had an early-morning flight, he’d run out of time. It was now or never.
The suitcase was buried on the floor of the closet where he’d left it after his last ski trip. He’d pack for cold weather. Maybe he’d be able to get some cross-country in while he was home. Mom wouldn’t have any skis. Maybe he could borrow a pair somewhere, since there was no place in town that was likely to sell them. Kristin—he bet her family would have a few extra pairs of skis somewhere. Not that she’d taken him up on his offer of a milkshake.
She had a full life, too. She was probably busy, and it wasn’t as if they had much in common.
It was just as well.
He tossed underwear, socks, jeans, a thin sweatshirt a
nd a bunch of T-shirts. All warm-weather stuff, basically. He’d gotten rid of his winter clothes when he’d come here after his residency, and in the years that had followed, he’d bought only clothes suitable for Phoenix temperatures. As if, subconsciously, he was making a choice. In truth, he’d never intended to go home again.
He didn’t want to go now.
He’d go to Montana this last time, but no more. Phoenix was home. This house was home. It was where his future was and where the past didn’t crop up every time he looked out the window. The sparse brown and jagged rocks of the Southwest were as different from Montana as a man could get. He’d invite his mom and sister to visit him here instead for holiday gatherings.
He’d forgotten to pull the blinds, and as he grabbed his razor bag and headed for the bathroom, the flash of light caught his attention. The merry Christmas lights of the houses down the street—the Carlsons with the white icicle lights dangling from their tile roof, the Millers with multicolored bulbs cheerfully outlining their stucco home and the Cooks with their front yard saguaro cactus draped in solemn blue flashing lights.
There were no icicles dripping from his roofline. No lighted angels in his front window. No flashing strings of bulbs adorning the cactus in his front yard.
The shadows of the night felt cold. Hollow, he finished his packing and left the suitcase at the front door for easy grabbing on his way out the door at 5:00 a.m. He set his alarm, climbed in bed and left the tableside lamp on. The darkness felt as if it were closing in on him.
When sleep came, it was fitful. He could not find peace.
Chapter Eight
December 24
Kristin tugged her favorite cable-knit sweater over the white turtleneck she wore. The soft wool was deliciously warm. It would definitely keep her toasty on the sleigh ride into the hills. With a pair of long johns under her sturdiest pair of jeans and wool socks on her feet, she was ready for a McKaslin family tradition. Christmas-tree gathering, the same way her great-great-grandparents did when they homesteaded the ranch in the 1860s.
